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  Laetitia’s got on a red jumper. It’s no holey like her black one. She’s got baith her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. She still looks dead pretty even though she’s been greetin.

  What? I says again.

  Her eyes don’t seem to be as black in this light. More a sorta dark reddy brown. Maybe it’s cause of her jersey. Or cause she’s been cryin. I look at Julian again.

  Clare, look…I…

  Let’s sit down, Laetitia says. She pulls her hands out her pockets, looks round the room, goes to the corner, picks up the gold wicker chair and sets it down in front of me. She’s movin dead quick and jerky.

  Please, sit, she says to me. She’s half bendin over and she’s got her hands on the back of the chair. This feels dead weird, but I sit down anyway. Laetitia’s hand brushes against my back when she moves away. She comes round in front of me and sits on the end of the bed. She clasps her hands round one knee. Julian sits beside her.

  I look at them baith. They don’t say nothin. Julian’s got his head down.

  Good shower? Laetitia says.

  Alright, I suppose. I shrug my shoulders.

  What happened to your hair?

  It’s just a wee bit damp.

  No, at the back.

  I reach my hand round to feel it. Oh, that. Julian was showin me how to start makin dreads. She looks at Julian, but he doesny lift his head.

  I see, she says. Well, I think you’d better comb it out, hadn’t you, before you get home. Your father wouldn’t like it.

  I feel my face goin red, but I don’t say nothin.

  So… Laetitia says.

  Clare, Julian says suddenly, I think you should go back to your own room. He’s lifted his head at last, but he’s still no lookin at me. No in the eye, anyhow. I keep lookin at him. His face is white and his mouth is a hard line. Then I look at Laetitia. She is lookin me right in the eye. I still don’t say nothin. I canny think of anythin to say. Her eyes are burnin right intay me.

  I don’t get up till I feel the tears startin to prick. I look round for my coat. It’s lyin in the corner on top of Julian’s jacket. I pick it up, then go in the bathroom for my bag. I keep my head down, so’s my hair falls over my face. So’s they canny see me and I canny see them. I step over their feet on my way past to the door. My bag and my coat are bundled up in front of me. I open the door, squeeze out, shut it behind me.

  It’s dark.

  I feel for the time switch on the wall and the light comes on. You get about four minutes afore it goes off again. The corridor looks different fae when I came in. Cold. The dark red carpet leads past three other rooms on this floor. I hurry along it. All the doors are closed.

  When I get back to my room, I remember I don’t have the key. I look at the closed door. I’ll have to knock. If Danny’s there, he’ll wake up and let me in. I hope he’s no there. No, I hope he is. If he isny, I’ll have to get the key from Reception. I’ll have to wake everybody up. Mr and Mrs Abensur. They’ll no be pleased. I’m tired. I set my coat and my bag on the floor. There’s no carpet on this corridor. Only the same hard marbly stuff like in the room. The wee white and black and grey flecks. They swim together all blurry when I look at them. I press my ear to the door. Nothing. Not a dicky bird. If Danny’s in there, he must be sound asleep. He’s no gonny be too chuffed either. The number on the door is 32, two brass numbers screwed on. The more I look at them, the more they melt thegether into a goldy blob. I wonder what happened. Wae Danny and Laetitia. I wonder what Julian and her are doin. The handle’s brass too with the keyhole underneath. The light goes out.

  I feel my hand along the wall to the end of the corridor and press the switch again. Then I come back to the door and look at the handle. I press it down a wee bit. It doesny make a noise. I press it right down. The door opens. It’s been open all the time. I push it in slow. I can see by the light fae the corridor Danny’s no there. The two beds are neatly made. I hold the door open and reach across the lobby for my coat and bag. I’m feart the door’ll bang shut and I really will be locked out. Even though I know that’s daft. I slide my stuff across the floor, in through the door and go in efter it mysel.

  I switch on the light. I’ve forgot how white it is. I keep a hold of the door. It’s on one a they springs; it closes slow for a wee while, then it pure bangs shut. I hold it till it gets to the place where the spring jerks, then pull it back a wee bit and let it in slow. It closes without makin a noise. Except the click of the spring, when it’s reached the bit.

  The picture of Our Lady’s still lookin down fae the wall. I look at my bed. My red T-shirt’s folded dead neat and laid on the top. Like my ma’s been in. I sit down beside it and let the tears come.

  I remember the dream dead clear when I waken up. I’m in l’Accademia. It’s night-time. It’s dark. There must be a moon but, cause there’s silver squares lyin on the floor fae the windows. Enough light to see by. I look round. I canny see the Prisoners. The Slaves. There’re no in the bit they were before. I canny see them anywhere. I look back to where they were supposed to be. This time I notice six big blocks a stone standin on pedestals. I start to panic. Where are they? Il Prigioni ? Then I remember the David. I turn and look down to the end a the gallery. He’s no there either. No even a block a stone. Just a pedestal. I cross the silver squares and walk up to where he should be. I keep thinkin he must be there, he must be. I get nearer and nearer. I think maybe I’m in the wrong place. The wrong gallery. And then I notice the computer thing’s on and there’s a close-up of his head wae his eyes starin intay the distance. And then one of his foot where the guy broke his toe wae a hammer one time. I think, Well he must be here then and I’m just no seein him. I look at the pedestal again. That’s when I notice it. The wee white statuette. The size of an Oscar when the actors go up on stage to get it. A wee statuette of David.

  I wake up and the pillow’s wet. My hair too. And my arms and legs are stiff, like efter PE when Miss Roger makes us vault the horse. That was a horrible dream. I think about the David, big and still, along the road in l’Accademia. I think about Julian and my throat feels tight. It must be early yet, cause there’s no much light in the room, even though I’ve left the shutters open. But it is morning, cause I can hear the water pipes gurglin in some other part of the B&B. Somebody takin a shower likely.

  I peer at my watch in the dark, but I canny see the hands and I don’t want to switch on the light. No yet. There’s still no sign of Danny. His bed’s no been slept in. I can see it there, white and smooth, in the dim light. It feels like a hundred years fae I was in it wae Julian. The tears start prickin again, so I think about other things. If I’ll have a shower. Breakfast. Goin back on the bus the day. School on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll skip Tuesday as well as Monday. The whole week even. Just go intay town instead. Hang about the shops. Hang about. Maybe I’ll…

  There’s naybody in the breakfast room when I come in. No even Mr Abensur. The big silver coffee machine isny even on. There’s a cloth draped over the top of it. Like a blanket. Like wae my granny’s budgie, so’s he would sleep. Joey. So’s he wouldny keep my granny wakened all night wae his cheepin. I look at my watch again. It’s ten past seven. Breakfast’s supposed to be between seven and nine thirty. Or maybe it’s different on Sunday. Maybe it’s later. I don’t want to go back to my room, so I go to the table at the window and sit down. It’s gettin light now, but it’s still quiet outside. When a car goes by suddenly, it sounds dead loud, rumblin over the cobbles. That echoey way when the streets are quiet. There’s a wee bit a sun already, slantin over the tops a the buildins across the street. The colour of honey. Maybe it’ll be sunny the day again.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sittin there, when Mr Abensur comes in. He doesny see me at first. He goes straight to the coffee machine, takes the cloth off it and folds it. He’s singin a wee tune to hissel. Then he switches it on. You can hear a faint hum. He goes out again and comes back carryin a tray of brioches and croissants. He’s away to put it
on the table beside the machine when he sees me.

  Buon giorno, signorina, he says, like he’s surprised. He sets down the tray and comes across to me.

  I think, oh no, I’ll no be able to understand him. I’ll no know what to say.

  But he goes, You bed OK? You sleep OK?

  Yes, yes, I says, sì, signore, grazie. And he smiles at me.

  Bene, bene. Molto bene.

  I keep my hair kinda over my face.

  Tuo fratello? You brother?

  He’s no up yet. Still in bed.

  He looks at me kinda serious for a minute. Then he says, Cappuccino e brioches. Like it’s the answer tay the questions he canny ask me. Like it’s just what the doctor ordered. I can feel mysel nearly greetin again.

  Grazie, signore, I says. Thank you.

  He goes across to the machine, clatters some cups, presses some buttons and it starts hissin and steamin. The smell of the coffee wafts over. I like the noise it makes. And the smell. He comes back wae a cup and saucer.

  Un cappucho, he says. I’ve no heard it called that afore. The cup’s full to the brim wae foam and there’s chocolate sprinkled on the top.

  Brioches coming. I heat first. He gies me a big smile.

  Grazie, signore. I try and smile back but my mouth feels twisted. Like that guy Dougie’s. Mr Abensur doesny seem to notice. He doesny crack a light anyhow. He just goes away and comes back a couple a minutes later wae a basket full a brioches. Does he think I’ll eat all this? My coffee’s still sittin there; I’ve no started it yet. I take a spoon a the chocolatey foam. The sun’s moved further down the buildins now, but this side a the street’s still dark. I don’t know if I’ll be able to drink much of the coffee; they make it dead strong here in Florence. Bitter.

  Buon giorno, signora, signore, Mr Abensur’s sayin. I look over at the door. There’s an older couple I’ve no saw afore comin in. The woman’s got her handbag wae her and a fawn cardigan over her shoulders. The man pulls out her chair for her. Then he sits opposite. They don’t say a word to one another. Just sit waitin.

  I take one of the brioches out the basket and put it on my plate. It feels warm. I’m no really in the mood for it but I eat it anyway. The jam gets all over my fingers. I’m wipin it off wae the napkin when I hear Laetitia’s voice.

  Hi, she says, dead bright. Mind if we join you?

  My head goes hot and I’m feart to look up. I can see Julian’s legs out the corner a my eye. Beside Laetitia’s.

  Clare? she says.

  When I do look up, I just stare. At first I think it canny be him. His eyes look dead big and his face is even whiter than usual.

  How… why…? I says. What happened?

  Behold the penitent, Laetitia says. I know. It’s a little extreme. A little OTT. She’s smilin at him. His head’s no completely shaved, but near enough.

  Julian has something to say to you, Clare. Is it alright if we sit down? She’s got on the red jersey again and her black hair swings forward all glossy.

  I don’t say nothin. I can’t take my eyes off Julian. They sit down. He’s no even looked at me yet. His head’s covered wae a pale velvety fuzz and his scalp’s showin through. In a couple a bits you can see wee marks. Wee red scratches. Like he’s cut hissel shavin. His beard’s no there either. He’s shaved that off too. He leans forward wae his elbows on the table. He still canny look me in the eye. At the back a his neck there’s some longer wispy bits of hair. Curly and soft. Like a baby’s.

  He looks at me then. Say something, Clare.

  I liked your dreads, I says.

  I’m sorry, he says.

  What for?

  Everything. Clare, I wanted to say —

  Jesus Christ!

  I’ve no noticed Danny comin in. He’s standin beside the table wae his mouth hangin open.

  Fucksake, man! What’s wae the Henrik Larsson? He starts to laugh. Fuck me…

  He doesny know. Danny doesny know.

  Jesus, Jules… He shakes his head and laughs again. Did you know he was gonny dae this, Laetitia?

  Excuse me, I says. I stand up so quick, my chair falls over. I’ve got tay go. I set the chair up and head for the door.

  Go where? Danny shouts after me. You’ve no finished your breakfast.

  I’m no hungry, I says.

  Clare…

  Mr Abensur gies me another smile when I pass him at the coffee machine.

  Ciao, I says. Grazie. Thank you for everything. And I hurry out intay the lobby.

  I start to go up the stair. It’s got the same red carpet that’s on Julian’s corridor. I’m gonny go right up tay my room, but I change my mind. Instead I go through the door on the first floor and along the corridor to Julian’s room. One of the other doors is open and there’s a pile a sheets and towels outside. I tiptoe past. I can see Mrs Abensur makin the bed. I try Julian’s door, but it’s locked. I stand lookin at it for a minute. Then I decide. I chap the door where Mrs Abensur’s workin. She straightens up fae the bed and looks at me. Her face is red and shiny.

  Please, I says, could you open this door for me? I point towards Julian’s room and mime turnin a key.

  She says somethin fast in Italian I canny make out at all.

  I left somethin in there, I says. My friend’s downstairs havin his breakfast. He says I can go in and get it.

  She must understand more English than she speaks, cause she says somethin else in Italian, but she comes out the room, lifts up a key fae a chain round her waist and opens Julian’s door.

  Grazie, signora, I says. Eàmolto gentile. I remember that’s what Julian says to Mr Abensur yesterday at breakfast. She gies me a smile, so it must be the right thing. She lets the big jangly keyring drop back on the chain and watches me goin in the room. I smile at her again and close the door.

  God! The bed’s a pure mess; the covers are in a big jumble, fallin off, and the towel I put on top a the sheet is on the floor. At least there’s no much blood on it. I look for the wastepaper bin; it’s half under the covers. There’s nothin in it except a few roll-up dowts and a couple of tissues.

  They must a done it in the bathroom, I think. Then I notice the chair. The gold wicker chair is beside the table at the window and the bin fae the bathroom’s sittin next to it. It’s no right closed. I go over and open it; my face flashes at me, scrunched up, in the bashed metal lid. I was right. They’re there. Julian’s dreads stuffed in the bin. On top of one a the hand towels wae smears a blood on it. No mine this time. Fae the cuts on Julian’s head probably.

  I pick up one a the dreads. They must be all tangled thegether but, cause the whole lot comes out. And the towel. That’s when I notice something else in the bin. A dooby. A used one. I drop the towel and the hair back in, untangle one dreadlock and stuff it in the pocket of my jeans. I need to get out.

  When I open the door, Mrs Abensur is just liftin up the pile a sheets and towels. I squeeze past her.

  Grazie, signora, I says. And I gie her a big smile, like I’m meant to be there. Would you lock my friend’s door again, please?

  She gies me a look, but she bundles the dirty washin under one arm and goes over and locks the door.

  Grazie, I say again. And I get out fast. I wouldny like to be there when she sees the state a that room.

  *

  My room feels dead calm efter Julian’s. I smoothe up my bed even though it’ll be stripped for washing in a couple a hours. I take the dreadlock out my pocket and sit down. It’s no as fair as his hair looked on his head. Maybe it’s one fae underneath. Your hair’s usually darker underneath. It feels funny now. More sorta stiff. More dead. Like a bit of frayed rope. I can see where it’s been hacked through near his head. I wonder if it was scissors they used or a razor. Or a knife. It canny a been very sharp anyhow, whatever it was, cause the hair’s all different lengths at this end. It’s the only bit that’s like real hair. When I look at it close I can see a few of the hairs have been pulled out by the roots; there’s a bit of white skin and then the roo
t wae a wee black oily glob out the – what d’ye call it – follicle. I peel one off wae my nails and rub the oil between my fingers. I do that wae all of them. Then I notice the bits of thread tied round at different points. Julian telt me about them when he showed me how to make dreads.

  First you twist a wee bunch a hair thegether; then you backcomb it right up to the roots. And you keep twistin and backcombin and twistin till it stays matted. But that’s no the finish of it. It starts to unravel, so you tie wee invisible threads round it. And then you have to rub beeswax on it to keep it all thegether. That’s the kinda sweet smell I always get – got – off Julian’s hair. I hold the dread under my nose. Smoke. It still smells smoky fae the fire last night. Beeswax. I can feel it too, a wee bit greasy. Julian says my hair’s too clean to get the dreads started right. Too shiny and slippy. You dae have to be a bit clatty, like I says. I feel the back a my head. It’s took me half an hour this morning to brush out the bit he started for me. Even without the beeswax. Cause my hair’s curly, Julian says, it should make it easier. You don’t wash it wae shampoo. If they get a bit smoky, you just have a bath wae patchouli oil. That’s the other sweet smell I get, but faint. Contrary to popular belief, Julian says, dreadlocks are high maintenance. I hold the stiff, matted bit of the dread and touch my cheek with the cut ends. Soft. Like a makeup brush. Like normal hair. How come he uses a condom wae her and no wae me…?

  I wonder what Mrs Abensur’ll do wae the rest a Julian’s dreads. She’ll likely just put them out wae the rubbish. I wish I’d taen more. Maybe she’ll stick them in the washin machine. Alang wae the towels. But how would you get the beeswax out? Maybe you could do what my ma does wae candlewax. Iron it wae brown paper on top, so the wax melts intay the paper. It’s a good job I’ve got my period the now, or I might’ve got pregnant. Funny how I didny even think. My ma would a killed me. The times she’s telt me, Use a condom. Never mind the Pope; if it comes to it, use a condom. And I’m like, I know that, Ma. You don’t need to tell me. I know. But I never. In the end, I never. I wish I’d have took one more of the dreads. Just one. Then I could keep this one the way it is. And I could undo the other one. I would like to see what his hair’s like if you combed out the dread. What it’s really like underneath. I think it would be fair and soft and a bit wavy.